


Face Up

by someinstant



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 15:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someinstant/pseuds/someinstant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to say, You should see the other guy, but dreams lap over him and he's not sure what the other guy looks like anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Face Up

**Author's Note:**

> [](http://nifra-idril.livejournal.com/profile)[**nifra_idril**](http://nifra-idril.livejournal.com/) proposed the [Following Suit Multifandom Challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/users/nifra_idril/181381.html), the idea of which is to write a story in the style of one's favorite writer, and as I have a Thing for Latin American Boom writers, I bring you SGA: The Magical Realism Remix. This story is a shameless, shameless riff on [Julio Cortázar](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Julio_Cortazar)'s "La Noche boca arriba" from the collection _Final del juego_ (published in English as "The Night Face Up" and _The End of the Game_, respectively). I can't find an English translation of the story up online, but the Spanish version can be found [here](http://www.juliocortazar.com.ar/cuentos/boca.htm).

It's not at all sequential when it happens. He sees the ground looming over him like his mother's face and hears Ibañez joking over the radio and feels the controls go dead in his hands all at once, all wrapped up in damp cotton. There's a long stretch of nothing, and impact, and more dark nothing.

They keep telling him he's the luckiest bastard they've ever seen, sliding an IV into a vein at the crook of his good elbow and strapping him to a backboard. To eject (because him must have ejected, there's no other answer) in enemy territory and wander for days, half-conscious and bloody, and manage to stumble onto a caravan of aid workers-- well. The dark-haired medic tuts and tells him to try and sleep through the flight. He tries to tell her he's not sleepy, but she injects something into the IV bag.

"Really, Captain," she says, smiling as the tide creeps inward, "you need to rest. You look like hell."

He wants to say, You should see the other guy, but dreams lap over him and he's not sure what the other guy looks like anyway.

John's sleep is feverish, and his dreams are tinted with pale blue and deep, deep reds. He's stalking through dim corridors on silent feet. John knows this feeling: stomach empty, fingers cold, pulse artificially level. He won't get out. John's not a fool, and there are certain odds which are unbeatable, and these are those odds. He won't get out, he knows, but he might be able to do some damage as long as he's around-- poison the well, maybe, if he had poison, and if the Wraith needed wells.

The dream flickers a little to his left, and he sees wide blind mouths and pale dead skin before he falls.

The impact of landing jars him awake, and the medic snarls ineffectively at the nurses who slide him onto the gurney. "Careful, careful, careful," she chants, and pets his head before they wheel him away. He tries to say, Thanks, I owe you one, but the chopper blades drown him out.

The hospital has a maze of clean bright hallways, and maybe it's the lingering sedative, but he can't seem to figure out the pattern. English and German signs flicker over his head, the words blurring together and he worries about his vision. They take him left, and left again, and then up a level, and right, and through a honeycomb of x-rays and CAT scans. His brain is no worse than it had been before, but his breathing is labored from the broken ribs. The arm he already knew about, but it was kind of neat in a sickening way to see the white bone fragmenting inside his black arm.

"We'll put in some pins, rods-- straighten things out," the doctor shorthands, and he tries to look like he's paying attention, and not waving in and out like mountain radio reception. The doctor shakes his head and grins, a white smile slicing through his dark face. "Damn lucky," the doctor says, and then the teeth are covered by a green mask, and he is face up, staring at the hospital ceiling as it swims.

He wakes up in the dream, cramped and cold from too long on the slick alien floor. John curses and stands, arm aching, hurriedly checking to see if they left him anything. They haven't, of course, but he has to check anyway, patting hands over pockets and hidden catches. Not only have they taken the guns and knives this time-- they've taken his watch and his dog tags, and suddenly he feels naked in front of a hundred eyes.

John wraps his hands around the thick web at the front of his cell, shaking and shoving and throwing himself against it. He thinks maybe he's shouting and has been for a while, because his throat is scoured and he hears heavy footfalls coming down the corridor. John considers being afraid, but his hand comes up empty when he reaches around his neck for the familiar chain, and he reminds himself that corpses aren't afraid of anything.

The web parts, and John steps out.

There are strong hands on his shoulders, pressing him carefully back into bed. It's dark, and for a moment he panics, remembering a long dark labyrinth and white hands that eat.

"Shh," the night nurse says, rearranging the tangle of sheets. "You're not going to be a wanderer, are you?" he asks. "Because restraints with that arm would really suck."

No, John rasps. The nurse hands him a glass of water. "No," John says, gulping the water down in one go. "Sorry. Bad dreams," he explains, and the nurse nods gravely.

"I bet," he says, and John knows that there'll be a psych evaluation in the next few days. Probably first thing in the morning.

"What time is it?" John asks. There doesn't seem to be a clock in his line of sight; probably to keep patients from obsessing about the next round of painkillers. The nurse tells him it's closing in on four in the morning, and checks his pulse before heading for the door. Just press the button if you need anything, he tells John, and shuts the door.

The darkness is absolute for a moment, and then it isn't. Faint phosphorescence shines off the black floor, just enough light to shadow the faces of the Wraith beside him. They haven't acknowledged him, aside from a grunt and a quick jerk of the head to indicate direction. Out of the corners of his eyes, John watches their curious lumbering, oily movements. He remembers alligators: all ungainly parts and jaws like triggers. It is a long walk, and there is no escape.

"So, Frank," John says to the Wraith on his right, just to kill time or maybe himself, "read any good books lately?"

"Who's Frank?" asks the nurse. His voice is calm, but he's got John's wrist between his hands, and John can see him count the beats and worry.

"I don't know any Franks," John says, and laughs and laughs. He is still laughing when the hands force him to his knees and press into his chest. John turns his face up towards the sky that isn't there, and lets the dream of Earth leach out.


End file.
